


Everything Still Turns to Gold

by nwspaprtaxis



Series: Stairway 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Angst, Daddy Dean, Dean has a kid, Disabled Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Mutism, Physical Disability, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Uncle Sammy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 12:02:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5205173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from pre-PILOT. Dean's permanently injured, retired before his time, and saddled with a Pink-Floyd-wearing, <i>Stairway-to-Heaven</i>-loving four-year-old whose tragedy is worth more than any paternity test... Cue in a one-way Greyhound ticket and a midnight phone call to Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything Still Turns to Gold

**Author's Note:**

> **Original Publication Date:** April 7, 2011
> 
>  **A/N:** This was originally a Comment Fic for **roque_clasique** 's [prompt](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/299079.html?thread=3200071#t3200071) at the **hoodie_time** 's [a Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme (#4)](http://community.livejournal.com/hoodie_time/299079.html) which went thusly: _Stanford!era, Dean gets a girl pregnant and somehow gets saddled with the kid. His daughter is only two or so when Dean gets very seriously injured (permanently, of course) -- John is AWOL, and Dean physically can't care for his daughter by himself (he's in a wheelchair, lost use of an arm, bad back, it's up to you), and he has no one else to turn to, so -- he calls Sam. He wouldn't do it for his own safety/health, but the safety of his kid is at stake, and that's the only thing that can make him want to break into Sam's new life._ I had this posted on my LJ but I took it down to possibly rework. As that didn't quite pan out, it is now being reposted due to popular demand. For those of you who recognize it, yes, I've edited it and, yes, I've changed the name of Dean's daughter.
> 
> Many many thanks to **Tolakasa** who not only beta'd this, but also put up with me whining about this for years and convincing me this is lovely and deserves to be reuploaded.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that. Yadda, yadda. Also, the title comes from the song _Stairway To Heaven_ , which belongs to Led Zeppelin and its respective parties. I also don't own anything belonging to Pink Floyd or anything that smacks of popular culture.

The phone rings four times before it’s answered.

“Hello?” The voice is impatient, cranky. “Who’s this?”

“It’s me,” he says, staring out the window at the lit-up billboards rushing by. “It’s Dean.”

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end and he knows exactly what’s coming. 

His next words come out in a hard rush before his brother has the chance to snap at him. “Don’t hang up. Please, Sam, don’t. Hear me out—” He hates how desperate his tone sounds, but it’s too late to repress it.

There’s a long, slow exhale in his ear and then, “Okay. Shoot. You’ve got five minutes.”

Dean nods even though he knows Sam can’t see him and glances down at the girl asleep on the seat beside him, head pillowed on his thigh, blonde hair clumsily braided into a messy tangle. _That’s going to be a bitch to brush out_ , he thinks as she curls up tighter, tugging his scarred leather jacket around her against the chill of the air conditioning. 

He breathes out as he grinds the heel of his palm into his hip, grimacing. “Can you come and get me at the Greyhound station?”

He hears Sam almost stop breathing. “Now? Where?”

“Not right this second — I won’t be there until about three-thirty, but the station’s in San Jose. Sorry I couldn’t get a station closer….”

“This _morning_? Do you know what fucking time it is?”

Dean winces at the sharp lash in Sam’s voice. “Please,” is all he can bring himself to say and the word burns sour on its way out. “I need your help.”

There’s another sigh, this one resigned. And when Sam’s voice comes through the phone again, it’s quiet, gentle; the way he remembers Sam reassuring shaken victims. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll be there. See you in a couple of hours.”

**::: ::: :::**

“Last stop — San Jose. Everybody off,” the driver announces as the air brakes grind the bus to a squealing halt.

“Hey, baby girl.” Dean gently shakes the girl’s narrow shoulder. “You gotta wake up now. We’re here and you know I can’t carry you.”

His daughter blinks sleepily and rubs her eyes, sitting up, the jacket serving as her blanket sliding to the floor. Dean catches it before it falls out of his reach and rises slowly to his feet, his right leg protesting the movement. Wincing, he rubs his thigh with his hand, coaxing the frozen, twisted muscle to relax, to do what it’s supposed to do, feeling the pitted, ropy scars even through the denim, taking his time so the mostly-empty bus disembarks. He pulls on his jacket and reaches overhead, lifting down their oversized army duffle and threads his arms through the short straps, wearing it on his back like a pack. Taking a fortifying breath, he glances down the aisle before securing an awkward grip on his crutches with one hand, the other gripping the back of the seats to balance himself. He takes a hop, gripping the seats, alternately pushing and dragging his crutches. He hasn’t gone three rows when there’s a tug at the hem of his jacket that pulls him short and makes him nearly stumble. He catches himself against the seats and looks behind him. Allie’s got a death grip on him and her lower lip is wobbling as she scrubs at her eyes with her free hand. Not for the first time, he wishes he were whole enough to pick her up and carry her like the little kid she is. Instead, he propels himself forward, his bad leg bearing none of his weight, Allie a duckling in the wake of his hitching, limping gait. He feels the driver’s eyes burning into him as they make their slow way down the length of the bus. 

The stairs make him pause and hesitate. The rise is too high for her short legs and he can barely maneuver them himself.

“D’you need help?” the driver says in his six-pack-a-day-rough voice, pity in his eyes. 

Dean feels his ears burn with shame as he nods, simultaneously, easing his coat from Allie’s tenacious grip, forcing himself to ignore the accompanying almost-soundless whimper.

Fortunately, the greasy man doesn’t try to help him down the stairs, allowing him to brace himself, to take his sweet time. It’s only four steps, but the exertion leaves him sweating, load-bearing leg jittering, by the time he reaches the pavement of the parking lot. Dean watches as the guy, slightly overweight with a prominent beer-gut, lifts Allie into his arms and takes the steps as easily and mindlessly as he had even three months ago. “Here you go,” the driver says, setting her down, and she instantly latches onto Dean’s good leg, almost unbalancing him, burying her face in the worn, tattered denim. 

Placing a hand on her head, he looks up at the driver. “Thanks.” The word is bitter, sawdusty in his mouth.

“Not a problem.” The driver shrugs. “That’s your only bag?”

Dean nods mutely, securing his grip on the crutches, as the driver boards the bus again.

There’s an awkward pause before the driver says, “Well, hang in there, man,” and disappears into the kiosk. 

“Dean?” The voice behind him is familiar.

He twists and sees Sam. 

His brother’s grown since he left for Stanford, but clad in a gray hoodie and jeans, he’s still every inch the kid who’d walked out on him without a backwards glance.

“Hey, Sammy.” The words feel natural and he smiles as he feels a weight lift. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath, bracing himself for disappointment, for abandonment.

“It’s Sam. And what happened to you?” Sam frowns, brow furrowing as he takes stock of the crutches, the hunched, stiff way Dean holds himself. “Where’s the Impala?”

“Later. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Dean brushes off the question with raised eyebrows. _I promise I’ll tell you, I swear. Just not now, not here_ , he telepaths. He shifts aside and feels Allie move with him. He glances down at her and sees she’s got one arm wrapped securely around his knee, thumb of her other hand stuck firmly into her mouth, eyes wide and apprehensive. He places his hand on the top of her head, strokes her hair. “Sam, meet Alexis Winchester. Allie, this is your Uncle Sammy I told you about.”

Sam’s staring at her in shock, jaw hanging slackly, too stunned to call him out on the nickname, and Dean figures it’s the same expression he had when he first laid eyes on her nearly two weeks ago. “God, Dean, is she…”

“Yeah. She’s mine,” he finishes quietly. “That’s why I called — I can’t do it alone. Not like this.” He nods towards his crutches and feels her shrink up against him.

“Aw, hey, it’s okay,” Sam tells her gently, crouching to her level. “Don’t be afraid. Do you want to sleep over at my house and sleep in a real bed? Your dad’s invited too.”

Dean looks down in time to see her peek out at Sam and nod at him once before resuming her limpet act.

Sam stands, brushing gravel from his hands. “A bit shy, huh?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. She’s just having a rough month. Not to mention we’ve been riding on that bus for the past twenty-two hours.” Dean exhales wearily, slumps forward on his crutches, trying to ease the weight off his shoulders.

Sam must’ve noticed, because the next thing Dean knows, Sam’s next to him, relieving him of the duffle and hefting Allie to his hip, smoothing down the back of her rucked-up light purple hoodie.

Allie glances at him worriedly, frowning, and Dean can tell she’s ready to bolt. He flashes her a grin and instantly, she relaxes and becomes pliable in Sam’s arms, resting her head on Sam’s shoulder and twining her arms around his throat. 

Sam leads them to his car, a tiny silver Toyota Corolla. “It’s not mine,” he says, opening the rear passenger door and shoving environmental science textbooks into the footwell so he can to settle the kid in the backseat. He belts her in, slipping the shoulder strap beneath her arm. “It’s actually my girlfriend’s. You can sit in the front,” he tells Dean, already opening the passenger door. “We’ve got about a half-hour drive.”

**::: ::: :::**

“Aw, damn,” Dean breathes when he hauls himself out of the bucket seat and sees the long, narrow stairway.

Sam’s brow furrows in concern, watching him balance himself precariously on his crutches. “Can you do stairs? We live on the second floor.”

Dean exhales. “Yeah I can, just hurts like a bitch.” A swallow. Then, disgusted, “You’re going to have to help me.”

“Okay.” There’s no judgment, no recrimination. “Just let me get your bag out of the trunk.”

**::: ::: :::**

“Are you hungry?” Sam asks as Dean clunks to the nearest kitchen chair and drops into it, panting, sweat dripping in rivulets at his temples, his body trembling. He sets their duffle on the floor by the living room doorway and turns back to Dean, worrying at his thumbnail with his teeth. “You okay? Need anything?”

Dean shakes his head. “No. Gimme a minute,” he rasps out as Allie wordlessly slips to her place at his side and plants a big, sloppy kiss on his right thigh through the denim. 

“You want something to eat? You must be hungry.” Sam shifts from foot to foot as Dean drags a second chair towards him and lifts his bad leg with his hands, exhaling with relief as he stretches it before him, propping his foot on the chair. 

He doesn’t miss the hopeful look Allie gives Dean.

“Yeah, we could eat,” Dean answers for her. “Doesn’t have to be anything big….”

“I don’t mind. How does grilled cheese sound?” Sam directs the question at the girl clambering onto the chair next to Dean. 

Predictably, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t even nod, just studies him with wide hazel-green eyes.

“All right. Grilled cheese it is.” Sam pulls open the refrigerator, takes out a stick of butter, a half-pound of American cheese, and a loaf of wheat bread. “Wheat okay? We don’t have any white bread, but we can pick some up tomorrow.”

Allie wrinkles her nose at the same time Dean grimaces. 

“Wheat’s fine.”

**::: ::: :::**

“Here,” Sam says, setting three plates of grilled cheese sandwiches on the kitchen table, one of them in front of the tiny girl kneeling on one of the kitchen chairs. 

Dean makes a mental note to find a booster seat somewhere as he takes Allie’s sandwich, cuts the two triangles in half again, quartering it, and nudges the plate to her.

Picking up a slice of his own sandwich, Dean surveys it critically. “Congratulations Sam. You finally succeeded in mastering a culinary skill I learned when I was about seven.” Dean grins up at him and takes a bite out of his sandwich wedge. “It only took you what? A couple of decades to figure out?”

It isn’t long before Allie begins fussing, a half-eaten slice of sandwich still on her plate. She doesn’t make a sound, but it’s clear from the way she scrubs at her eyes with both hands and how face screws up that she’s exhausted, overwhelmed, overwrought, and is about to cry.

“Aw, baby girl, c’mere.” Dean folds his entire slice into his mouth and smears buttery palms on his jeans before opening his arms in invitation.

She doesn’t need further encouragement and slides off her chair. She stands besides Dean, uncertain, for a moment before reaching out to him.

Dean picks her up and settles her on his left thigh, holds her close, and she instantly becomes a leech, all clingy arms and legs, burying her face in the junction between his neck and shoulder. And even though Sam doesn’t hear anything, he can tell she’s crying. 

One hand placed securely on her back, Dean quietly undoes the Velcro straps of her shoes with the other and slips off the white leather sneakers, placing them on the chair by his ankle. Then he carefully tugs off her sweatshirt, revealing a well-worn pink t-shirt, a soothing humming coming from his throat, hand rubbing her back in time to the tune. 

Then Sam distinguishes the words just as she stills.

 _There's a lady who's sure_  
_All that glitters is gold_  
_An’ she’s buyin’ a stairway to heaven_

“Seriously? Led Zeppelin?” Sam whispers, when Allie’s breathing grows heavier.

“Yep,” Dean says, picking up the remaining wedge of his daughter’s sandwich and taking a hearty bite out of it. “Works better than any lullaby. You should know.”

Sam doesn’t return his brother’s shit-eating grin, still reeling from the tenderness he just witnessed. “She’s really yours, huh?”

“Yeah.” Dean’s voice is quiet. “Had the DNA test to confirm it and everything.” He clears his throat, adjusts Allie so her head isn’t lolling off his shoulder, curls his arm more securely around her. “The results were ninety-nine-point-nine percent positive. You gonna eat that?”

Sam hands his brother the cold, blackened wedge of gooey sandwich from his own plate. “Wow. Not much doubt there.”

Dean shakes his head. “There never was. When I got the phone call, I knew.”

“What happened to her mom? Why isn’t she— Why do you—”

“Why do I have her?” Dean finishes the stumbling question for his brother, mumbling around a mouthful of melted cheese and bread. He drops his voice to a low whisper and Sam doesn’t miss the way he tightens his hold around Allie, the way he presses his hand to the side of her head as though to block out his next words. “I’m the one raising her because her mom was murdered in a bar brawl gone bad and there was no one else to take her in. No aunts, no grandparents, nothing. It was either me or the state of Arizona. And I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk away, Sam. She watched her mom die.”

“God. That’s….” Sam’s eyes go puppy-moist as his gaze shifts to her again. “She’s lucky to have you.”

Dean shrugs. “It’s what anyone would’ve done. It was the right thing to do.”

Sam shakes his head. “No. Not just anyone would’ve done it.” There’s a pause and then, uncertainly, “What happened to your leg? It was a hunt, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Career-ending injury. Flew through a second-story window. Landed in the middle of a road. Shattered the femur, wrecked my hip up pretty good too.” He falls quiet. “It was a poltergeist in a church of all things.”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“Yeah. Anyways, Dad was with me. It wasn’t his fault.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Doesn’t matter. You were still going to blame him, weren’t you? I could see it in your face.”

“So what brings you here?” Sam changes the subject.

“Her.” Dean nudges his shoulder upwards. “I can take care of myself just fine. It’s not that…. It’s just….” He drops his gaze and begins picking up crumbs. He starts over, “I just have a little trouble doing some things now and if I fell or something….” He clears his throat. “If it was just me, then fine, I could hack it. But not with her involved.”

**::: ::: :::**

The sun’s rising, pale yellow beams peeking through the curtains when Dean comes out of the bathroom, clad in sweatpants and a short-sleeved t-shirt. 

Allie is already settled on the futon, clad in a too-large t-shirt emblazoned with the _Dark Side of the Moon_ prism logo, curled up underneath the mismatched blankets that Sam pulled from a closet somewhere. 

“Sorry there isn’t much space. I’d give you my bed, but Jess is still sleeping right now and I don’t think she’d appreciate waking up with a strange guy next to her. Even if he was my brother.”

Dean shrugs, mouth quirking. “This is fine. I don’t mind sharing with her — she has bad dreams and she always ends up crawling in my bed. Just consider this a preemptive measure.” He grabs his leather coat from where it had been dumped on an upholstered wingback chair en route to the bed. He sits cautiously on the edge of the thin mattress, exhaling with relief as he lays his crutches on the floor and manually lifts his bad leg onto the bed, tension leaving his shoulders as he settles.

Sam doesn’t say anything as he watches Dean pull off a thin comforter and smooth his jacket over the pile of sheets and thin blanket in its place.

“Dunno why, but she won’t sleep otherwise,” he tells Sam in a whisper, hand lingering on her head, fingers stroking her hair. 

Sam exhales. “You look beat. Get some sleep,” he orders as Dean slides lower, lays on his back. “I have a class in a couple of hours — at eight — so I’m going to study a bit and then head over to campus. I’ll be back around one. We can talk more then. Figure everything out. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

He’s at the doorway when Dean calls out his name, making him swivel. “Thanks,” he says.

Sam nods, hand on the light switch. “You’re my brother.”

The room plunges into semi-darkness and Dean feels Allie wriggle until she’s flush against his side, and the impact of a tiny limb against his sternum as she flings her arm across his chest. Her reach barely makes it across his ribs. Her hand fumbles, fingers seeking, and then he feels a tug at his neck as she clutches at his amulet. _Don’t go_ , he can hear the plea, the vulnerability she won’t dare display so nakedly during the day. _Don’t leave me_.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers in her ear, tucking her in closer, resting his cheek on the top of her head. “You won’t have to worry about a thing. Not as long as I’m around.” He wraps his arm protectively around her, hand rubbing her back.

She lets out a half-sob in her sleep and squirms, burying her nose in his side. In response, he begins humming Led Zeppelin softly, tapping out the rhythm on her back with his fingers.

 _There walks a lady we all know_  
_Who shines white light and wants to show_  
_How ev’rything still turns to gold_

The tune, his voice, soothes her and she settles against him.

And they sleep.


End file.
